


Side-Effects

by loversandantiheroes



Series: Case History [4]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, Cunnilingus, Depression, Developing Relationship, F/M, Grief, Help I Got A Plot In My Porn, I'd call it mild jealousy but that depends on your definition, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Improper Use of a Countertop, Jealousy, Multi, Smut, Tags Will Be Updated For Later Chapters, The gang's all here tbh, This one's gonna be a bit of a doozy, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, a sudden hard left into fluff, actual anxiety disorders and medications, also more angst, and also hugs, brief mentions of medical situations, canonic levels of suicidal ideation, just to soothe some shattered nerves, overly dramatic weather is overly dramatic, so many people in pelican town need therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loversandantiheroes/pseuds/loversandantiheroes
Summary: All of Pelican Town knows about you and Harvey now.  Some parties take the news a little better than others.  A sequel to The House Call.





	1. Chapter 1

By the next morning, you’re fairly certain the whole town knows about you and Harvey. Gossip is both the standard currency and preferred entertainment of small towns, after all. Your phone notifications have been blowing up steadily since last night, so it’s little surprise when Shane rolls up in your driveway sometime after 7:30.

“Mornin’ Phil,” he says, climbing down out of the cab of Marnie’s rust-red pickup. He's always called you Phil. You have no idea why, the nickname something akin to a punchline with no joke.

“Morning,” you call back. “You’re early. ‘Bout forty-seven-and-a-half hours early by my watch.”

“Eh, you know how it is. Had a little free time. Thought I’d make the most of the day and get the last of that fence taken care of.” As he steps closer, fishing his work gloves out of his jacket pocket, you get a bit of a better look at him. There are dark circles under his eyes, deep smudges of dark blue like bruises. His skin is sallow under the dense shadow of stubble that creeps from his neck up the sides of his face. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him with a hangover, but it’s certainly the worst one you’ve seen.

“Uh-huh. You look like shit, sugarplum.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I get for buying my foundation from a manure dealer.”

“You want a cup of coffee?” you ask, holding up your cup. “The pot’s fresh.”

Shane grimaces. “Pass. Breakfast is sitting kinda crooked. Could use a hand up at the fence, though. Bring your gloves, you’re gonna need them.”

“You sure you’re up to this today?” you ask. “Don’t expect carpentry goes well with hangovers.”

Shane rolls his shoulders. “Took some aspirin on the way up,” he says, patting his left pocket which gives a muffled rattle of pills on plastic. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

The damaged stretch of fence is - _was_ \- a little over ten feet long. Two posts had been knocked off-kilter, and one had to be replaced entirely. Shane had already taken care of that along with replacing the broken boards last week, but he’d made mention that there were still a few weak spots he wanted to get replaced before the cow got a wild hair and decided to try another jailbreak.

“So,” Shane says, working one of the old boards loose with the claw end of his hammer. “You and Mr. Pringle, huh?”

There it is. “You've got a pathological aversion to using people’s names.”

“Not my fault he looks like he walked off a can of potato chips. How long’s that been going on?”

“Not that long. Couple weeks.”

“Huh,” he shakes his head as the board comes loose and gestures for you to toss it away. “Didn’t figure you for the type that likes your meat dry aged.”

“Hitch your pants up, dear, your asshole is showing.”

Shane drops his head, the bitter smile dropping with it. “Yeah. Sorry.”

The two of you work in silence for a few minutes, Shane carefully avoiding your eyes.

“So um,” he mumbles. “How’s that going?”

“Good,” you say with a tilt of your head, holding a new treated board up as Shane starts hammering it down. “He’s sweet, y’know?”

“Heh. Balances out all your salt?”

“Something like that. Last week was hell on toast, and he came out to check on me. Brought me dinner. It was...it was just really nice.”

“Don Juan DeMustache.”

_“Seriously.”_

“You don’t pay me enough to be serious, Phil. So are you gonna do this properly?”

You frown, passing the next board up. “What do you mean?”

“Like, are you two an actual _thing_ thing, or just boudoir buddies? Half the town’s taking bets on when you’re going to give him a bouquet and the other half’s guessing wedding dates.”

“Bouquet?” you ask with a frown.

“Oh shit,” Shane says, grinning. “You don’t know, do you? The Valley’s got all kinds of bullshit traditions. Apparently around here if you’re looking to get serious, you’re supposed to give the person you’re looking to formally bone a bouquet. You don’t even want to know what they do around here when they want to get married.”

“What?”

He leans against the fence post. “Seashells, Phil,” he says confidentially. “Fuckin’ seashells.”

You roll your eyes, smacking his arm with the back of your hand. “Alright, come on. Now you're just fucking with me.”

Shane holds his hands up, shaking his head. “May Yoba strike me down with a twenty-foot dildo, I swear that is the truth!”

“I almost hope you’re lying, just for the novelty of that.”

“Be a hell of a way to go, that’s for damn sure. But you didn’t answer my question. Is this a flowers sorta situation or a floral-free zone?”

You fall quiet, crouched among the scraggly grass and sparse wildflowers that grow along the fence line. A little clump of Black-eyed Susans grows near the base of the fence post and you find yourself staring at it, thinking of the last two days. Thinking, more than any of it, of Harvey under the weathered old apple tree, smiling down at you with bright eyes.

“Flowers, huh?” you say, musingly.

“Oh you got it _bad,_ Phil,” he says. And then on the heels of that, with a bitter-edged laugh: “Must be nice.”

You look up, but he’s looking away. There’s a smile on his face, but it’s fixed and strained and unpleasant.

“Are you-”

“Just about done, yep. You got things to do anyway, yeah? Don’t let me hold you up.”

He drives the last nail in a little too hard and you jump.

“Shane…”

“Done!” he announces, still smiling all wrong. He claps your shoulder and walks briskly away, tucking the hammer into his belt. “Later, Phil. Tell Mr. Pringle I said hi.”

“See you at the saloon tonight? We can split a pitcher and a pizza,” you offer hopefully. The suggestion of alcohol sits poorly with you, but it’s the only thing you can think of. He’s got the same gait now that he used to have when you’d first met him, back when all he ever did was look at you with sour suspicion at every attempted kindness.

“Nah, I don’t think so,” he says, and you don’t like the bright, brittle tone in his voice one bit. “Got some shit to do, y’know? Busy-busy-busy.”

You want to follow, to grab his shoulder and spin him around and make him _talk_ to you, but that feels about as advisable as kicking wasps’ nest. So you let him walk away. 

“Take care of yourself,” you call out cautiously.

He doesn’t turn. “You just bet,” is all he says.

⁂

The unsettled feeling from Shane’s visit doesn’t leave. You go about your morning routine with a permanent scowl, muscles running on autopilot as your mind runs the exchange over in your head. Shane’s the prickly sort, always has been, but he’d started to soften these past few months, jabs becoming friendlier and less sharp. 

The more you think on it the more you think about those bags under his eyes and the bitterness in his voice. You’ve known Shane was a drinker for some time, but this was the first it’s really occurred to you that it might be more than just a taste for the stuff. That it might actually be a _problem_. And now that it’s in your head you’re suddenly remembering every beer you’ve ever bought him, and all the wine you’d brought to dinner just a couple weeks back, and your own stomach starts to sour.

By the time your phone goes off - a reminder for your coffee date with Harvey - you’ve nearly forgotten everything Shane said about flowers. It isn’t until you open the door to the clinic and catch sight of Maru’s face that you even remember anyone else knows about your love life at all.

“You!” Maru all but shouts, pointing in what might be the clearest demonstration of the word _j’accuse_ you’ve ever seen.

“Yep, pretty sure.”

Maru wags her finger at you admonishingly. “You are a _terrible_ friend!”

For a split second you wonder if she’s spoken with Shane, your face falling. 

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

A sigh that’s as much relieved as it is exasperated leaves you as you sag against the counter. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell her. “This was all kind of sudden and Harvey’s about 85% anxiety and I didn’t want to blurt out anything until I thought he was comfortable with it. And then the weekend happened and you guys were all there last night and I just figured, y’know. To hell with it. Might as well spare you the speculation.”

“Well you missed that mark by a mile,” Maru says, but she laughs as she says it. “That was pretty much the only thing anybody talked about last night. This morning, too. Congrats, you two are officially the talk of the town.”

“How’s Harvey dealing with that?” 

“Oh, I think it’s going to take a crowbar to get him out of the clinic for at least the next three days.”

You frown a bit, thinking, and lean in closer. “Hey, did Shane stick around last night?”

Maru purses her lips. “At the Saloon? Yeah, for awhile. He knocked off a bit early in a grump, said he couldn’t stand drinking with a bunch of gossips. Why?”

“He turned up this morning to finish the fence hungover as all hell. He was real tetchy, not that that’s unheard of but...I don’t know. Just made me worry, that’s all.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Maru says, but you think maybe you catch a bit of concern in her eyes, too. “I’ll text Emily, see if she’s up to taking him one of her hangover cures. If she can’t make him feel better nothing will.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“You ought to be,” Maru says, nodding. “Hey, seriously though. You’re happy, right? Harvey’s all grump-and-fluster when I ask about it but I swear any time he even thinks about you he just goes a little dreamy.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, smile slowly returning. “Yeah I am.”

Maru rounds the desk to give you a bone-cracking hug. “I am _so_ happy for you two. It’s good to see you both smile like you mean it.”

“Hey,” you say, blinking rapidly to keep from tearing up. “No blowing my cover. I’m _always_ happy.”

“Uh-huh. Harvey ran upstairs as soon as you pulled up to put on a pot of coffee. I don’t think he could take being in the room with both of us without blushing so hard he combusts. Go on up.”

“Thanks Maru. You’re a good egg.”

“Hard-boiled,” she adds, squinting dramatically.

“Over-easy.”

“ _Scram,”_ she says with a swat.

⁂

There’s a rattle of silverware on ceramic as you make your way into the apartment proper. “In here,” Harvey calls out from the kitchen. “I didn’t think she’d let you get away that quickly.”

“Maru is a merciful interrogator.”

Harvey snorts. “Trust me, you missed the real interrogation.” He turns, pressing a cup of coffee into your hand as he presses his lips to yours. “Good morning.”

“Just barely,” you say, as it’s pushing well past eleven by now.

“Just barely morning or just barely good?” He’s teasing, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a little half-grin.

You almost stop yourself, not wanting to see that smile, that lightness, drop from his face. But you can’t.

“Both.”

Harvey frowns, eyes searching your face. “W-what is it, what’s wrong?” he stammers, shoulders pulling up. Panic wells up in his eyes and you watch his face work, trying desperately to tamp it down.

“Not you, Harvey, not you,” you say, chasing after his mouth with rough, insistent kisses until you feel the bunched knot of his shoulders relax.

“Sorry,” he mutters as you pull away, embarrassment shading his cheeks a deep red. “Old habits. I’ll get used to this eventually.” His hand is low on your back and he guides you over to his kitchen table. “Now, enough about my paranoia: what’s got you troubled?”

“Shane came out to the farm this morning,” you tell him, easing yourself into the chair. Harvey’s hand trails away and you snag it in your own. The touch is steadying. You could use a little steadiness now. “Figured he was just there to give me shit for keeping quiet about the two of us.”

“And he wasn’t?” Harvey asks curiously.

“He was at first. Or at least it seemed like it. He gave me shit, I gave him shit. It was all pretty standard. He was hungover, though. Worst I’ve seen him.”

Harvey frowns, straightening in his chair.

“I take it that’s not news to you?”

“No. I’m afraid not. We have had some...discussions in the past about his habits. He’s...” Harvey lets the sentence hang, frowning. He fidgets, turning the coffee cup around and around on the table. “Dammit. There’s not much I can really talk about.”

“Doctor/patient privilege?”

Harvey nods, grimacing apologetically.

“Right. I didn’t know, though. Not until this morning. I mean I knew he liked a drink but...fuck I feel so stupid now. I just keep thinking of every time I bought him a beer and my stomach ties up in knots.”

Harvey leans forward, elbows on his knees, and presses his lips to the back of your hand. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Shane isn’t exactly Mr. Conversational about his problems. You’ve got more than your share of worries to deal with, nobody expects you to be Sherlock Holmes on top of it. So. He turns up at your place hungover. What then?”

“We went up, started fixing the last of the fence. He started asking about you and me, and-” you trail off, thinking again of flowers.

“And?” Harvey echoes.

He looks at you, expectant and patient, and your mouth dries up. You can’t tell him about the flowers. You just _can’t_. With all of his hang-ups and hesitations and anxieties, you can’t abide the thought of letting your feelings for him be relegated to a footnote.

You swallow. “He closed up. He was smiling this big grimace-y sort of smile and he just left. I tried to invite him out tonight for pizza but he just...he shut me out.”

Harvey sits in quiet thought, chewing absently on his lip. Slowly, he says, “Do you think he might be jealous?”

“What, that we’re-?"

“Maybe,” Harvey says with a shrug. “Certainly sounds that way, given the situation. Perhaps he just needs some time,” he adds, squeezing your hand. 

“I don’t know. He’s never really made it seem like he was interested in me. I always thought him and Emily were...I don’t know,” you say, shaking your head a little. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe that is it. Or maybe he was just hungover and I’m overthinking it. The whole thing just unsaddled my head. I’m, I’m just-”

“You’re worried about him.”

“Yeah. Yeah I really am.”

“Alright,” he says with a decisive little nod. “He was due to come in for his yearly at the end of the month. I’ll talk to Maru, have her reschedule for this week. See if I can talk to him. If I can help him, I will.”

He pushes himself up and forward, leaning on the table. There’s a bittersweet taste of coffee on his mouth as he kisses you.

“Thank you,” you say with a small, relieved sigh. “I mean it, Harvey. Thank you.”

“Of course. He may be my patient, but he’s my friend, too,” Harvey says. “And if you’re worried, I’m worried.”

You laugh a little. Dry, and shaky, but a laugh. “You’re _always_ worried.”

“See? My point exactly.”

You shake your head, giggling, and kiss him again. 

“Think you’ll be free tonight?” you ask, dragging your fingers through his hair.

“I can’t,” he says with a reluctant shake of his head. “Tomorrow’s a free clinic setup in Grampleton I promised a couple colleagues I’d help out with. I’ve got to be up early.” Then, smiling in a fashion that is all at once bashful and a little suggestive: “I think I could manage an early lunch, though.”

Your heart jumps more than a little. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

“Hey now. That’s my shtick.” He gives you a swift peck on the end of your nose and straightens. “I’ll go talk to Maru. Sit tight, I’ll be back before you know it.”

You watch him go, heart lightened considerably, and begin to drink your coffee.

Flowers. Yes. This is _absolutely_ a flowers sort of situation.

By the time your cup is empty you’re already formulating a plan. The fairy roses are finally beginning to bloom, after all.

Harvey returns moments later. Before he can get the door shut behind him you hear Maru call up in a voice that’s just a little too gleeful: _“You kids have fun!”_

Harvey turns a particularly shocking shade of pink, then locks the door behind him.

“Appointment’s taken care of,” he says, crossing over to you. “And she’s uh, she’s taking off for her lunch as well.”

“Speaking of which,” you say, smiling wickedly, “what do you fancy?”

His eyes grow just a little dark as his hands slip around your waist. “As if you have to ask.”

Time might be limited, but Harvey doesn’t rush. His kiss is slow and tender and unhurried. It’s not timidity, or a lack of passion. There _is_ passion in him, but it is to be carefully kindled and savored. A kiss that’s warm enough to melt you blooms slowly into one that burns and begs for more to keep the fire in your belly burning. 

He’s flush against you, thigh pressing up between your legs but offering only the slightest taste of the friction you want. As the kiss deepens you can feel the bulge pressed against your hip swell and thicken deliciously. You loop your fingers around his belt and pull him tighter to you, rocking against him. He moans, mouth falling open, eyes fluttering closed.

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper, tongue darting out to trace the line of his teeth and the curve of his lip.

“You,” he breathes. There’s a familiar crinkling from his pocket when his hips begin to join in with your rhythm. Always prepared, this man. You wonder a little if he actually _was_ a boy scout.

“You’ve got me,” you say, the sound of the words muffled by his mouth. “Now what do you want to _do_ to me?”

“I-” He falls to stutters and sighs as he moves, distracted by the sensation. His hands find your breasts, kneading them through your shirt.

“Talk to me, Harvey.”

He pushes forward hard, breath hitching, the lip of the counter digging into the small of your back. “I want to taste you,” he says with an almost desperate groan. 

And then he’s tugging at your waistband, unfastening the button and catching jeans and panties both with his thumbs and yanking them down. You’ve left your boots by the door as soon as you came in, a habit meant to save his threadbare rug from tracks of congealed farm muck, and it’s the simplest thing in the world for you to step out of your pants and kick them across the kitchen floor. 

“On the counter, sweetheart,” he says, “Up you get.” Helpful as ever, he lifts you by the waist as you push up with your palms. As soon as your bare ass touches down on the counter top - and sweet Yoba it’s colder than you expected - he’s pushing your knees apart and dragging his tongue up your inner thigh.

Eager he may be, but as he’s demonstrated on more than one occasion now, he’s not unpracticed, and still he doesn’t rush. He opens you almost solely with his mouth. Long, slow drags of his tongue and open, nuzzling kisses. No hesitance this time, no inquisitive exploration. Just the firm, patient, and utterly thorough insistence of his mouth.

You lean back, breath short already, trying to tip your hips up towards him, when your head knocks against something. It rattles as you turn your head and you realize you’re bunched up against his kitchen window. Your heart nearly stops, but the view beneath the raised blinds is all dappled green. A rather expansive oak in the backyard below blocks most of the view. The lucky or determined might be able to spot you from a few angles up by the community center or from the backyard below, and the thought sparks off the memory of your first frantic encounter in the bar, and how lucky you were to not get caught. A hot rush surges through you and you choke off a cry as Harvey’s tongue licks a determined path from your entrance to your clit and back again.

“Harvey,” you pant, squirming a little. “The window.”

He looks up at you, lips and chin glistening. “Nobody can see you, sweetheart. Not from that one.” Unhindered, Harvey slowly slides a finger into you as you watch, curling and coaxing.

“I - _oh fuck_ \- sound carries. The window is _thin_.”

He smiles, sweet and wicked. “You’ll just have to keep your voice down, then.”

He bends his head again as a second finger joins the first and you bite your lip, moaning, knees drawing up. You are tremendously wet, and his fingers easily glide deep into you, curling and spreading, working you open. The outline of his cock is clear as he crouches in front of you, an impressive tent in the front of his dress slacks. A little shudder of anticipation runs through you at the sight, stoked by the restless coaxing of his fingers.

One hand finds Harvey’s hair, winding in the soft mess of dark brown curls and scratching gently at his scalp as you bite down on your knuckles in a vain attempt to keep your voice in your mouth. It’s a futile effort. Harvey seems to have taken the concerns of privacy as a challenge, doing everything within his not-inconsiderable power to wrench whatever sounds he can from you.

His fingers curl again, pressing up hard, and you let out a low, hitching sob. He says nothing, but his eyes lock with yours and he fastens his lips around your clit, sucking hard, and it’s everything you can do not to tumble off the counter as you come.

Harvey reaches up, grasping at you, trying to keep you from overbalancing. You grab his hand without thinking and press it to your breast, grateful as much for the support as for the sensation as he squeezes.

“Touch yourself for me,” you breathe, struggling to regain some control over your voice. “Please. Let me see.”

His eyes are dark, the warmth of his breath on your sex ceases for a moment. And then his hand moves to his belt and begins to work it open.

He has to adjust, dropping properly to his knees and fumbling one-handed at his fly before you’re rewarded with the sight of those long, fine fingers wrapping around the rigid length of his cock. He pumps his hand a few times, the fingers inside you moving in tandem. He pulls his hand from you, fingers and palm slick and glistening, and your whine of disappointment turns to a groan as you watch him grip himself with it instead. The sound when he begins to stroke is _obscene_ , wet and smacking and intensely arousing.

“Oh honey,” you sigh, your hand finding its way between your legs as if on its own. “That’s beautiful.”

He is a sight, kneeling on his kitchen floor in his shirt and tie with his dress slacks undone and his cock in hand. His eyes dart between your slowly circling fingers and your face, a deep flush creeping up his cheeks.

“Is, is this good?” he pants.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Better than good. You have no idea.”

He makes an appreciative sound as he watches you, licking the last traces of you off his lips. “I want,” he starts, then falters.

“Yes,” you say eagerly. “Tell me, Harvey.”

He stammers, then shakes his head, laughing. “Not here,” he says, shifting awkwardly. “My poor old knees can’t take it. Couch. Please.”

“You poor thing,” you say, giggling, and slide down off the counter to help Harvey to his feet. “I’ll bring my knee pads next time.”

“You’re all heart,” he chuckles, holding up his pants with one hand.

His cock juts out towards you, still slick and bobbing slightly, and you grasp it, tugging him towards the living room. “Couch, I believe you said.”

He groans. “Y-yes.”

“Then what?”

The flush that was only just beginning to abate flares up once again in Harvey’s cheeks. “Climb on me,” he says thickly. “Ride me. Please.”

You cup his cheek, drawing him down for a kiss as you back him towards the couch. When the back of his legs fetch up against it he staggers, but you hold him steady, fingers snaking into his pocket for the condom he’d so thoughtfully brought with him.

“Drop,” you say, tapping the hand he’s using to hold his pants up.

They hit the floor with a light jingle. You reach down, cupping his balls through the bunched fabric of his boxer shorts before pushing those down as well.

“Sit.”

He does, looking up at you with a mix of adoration and trepidation. He’s out of his depth again, all uncertainty. He knows what he wants, that much is clear, but asking for it is new. 

And so, it seems, is receiving it.

You tear into the foil packet and lean over him. “Let’s see if I still know how to do this trick,” you whisper conspiratorially. You place the still-rolled condom against your lips, sucking only enough to hold it in place and purse your lips tightly as you push down over his cock, working him with your hands to help slowly unroll the condom.

“Just like riding a bike,” you say with a smirk as you stand, pulling your t-shirt up over your head and tossing it aside.

“My bike’s never done that,” Harvey says with a breathless chuckle.

“I should hope not,” you say, straddling his lap. “I’d hate to be in competition with a mode of transportation.”

“No contest, I assure you,” he says, lips grazing your neck.

You tug at the knot of his tie and make short work of the buttons on his shirt. Just barely visible above the line of his collar is a dark, mottled mark. Your handiwork from yesterday. As you pull his shirt open you press your lips against it, feeling the rumble in his throat as he hums his approval.

He groans as you sink down, slow and easy and _deep_. Kissing the top of his head, you begin to move. Slow and strong, a mimicry of his own pace. You wrap your arms around him, guiding his head to your breasts. You don’t hear him sigh but you feel it, warm breath rushing out against your sternum. He whispers things against your skin, leaves a trail of words against the curves of your breasts. He seems more than content like this, moaning softly as he lifts one of your breasts to his mouth, mouthing the roundness of it before sucking greedily at the taut, raised nipple. His hands slide up your back to your shoulders, gripping tight as his mouth continues its ceaseless exploration. You shudder at every swipe of his tongue, grinding down against the lifting of his hips and slowly gaining speed.

He pulls you down tighter, getting a hand between you to worry over your clit, hard and swollen and slick. You jolt forward against his hand with a cry.

“H-harvey,” you say, a warning as your rhythm falters.

 _“Yes,”_ he mutters, working you with nimble fingers until you’re riding him in earnest, spreading your knees out wider in an attempt to push him even deeper into you.

The friction is maddening, a bright heat that sparks and jumps like electrical arcs as you move faster, thighs trembling.

He feels you building towards a peak, and his hips jut up to meet yours. The hand on your shoulder slides up the back of your neck and into your hair and he pulls your head down, resting his mouth against the cup of your ear.

“Come on my cock, sweetheart,” he whispers.

When you break, he covers your mouth with his, stifling the sound of your cry and his own as you tighten and flutter around him. Your legs give out, muscles trembling, and all you can do is sit impaled and shuddering, riding out the spasms.

“I can’t,” you mutter into his mouth when you can breathe again. “I can’t move. My legs are jello, I can’t-”

Harvey laughs breathlessly. “New approach,” he says, getting his hands underneath your ass and lifting. He slides down a little, pulling you forward so that you’re resting against his chest and the gentle swell of his belly. The position gives just enough room for him to thrust properly. He rolls his hips up and into you, lifting and rocking your ass as he moves.

“Oh fuck,” you cry, panting. Your arms latch around his neck. Your clit drags and slides against his belly as he moves you, desperately sensitive and overwrought.

Discretion is wholly abandoned. Your cries are nearly as loud as his as he drives up into you. There might be words in those cries, but damned if you can tell. Your ears are ringing too loud. Your eyes squeezed shut tightly. Sensation is all that’s left. You writhe in Harvey’s arms, a wicked heat building fast in you. 

“So good," he groans, a low, rumbling sound caught deep in his throat. _"Fuck,_ that's so good."

You feel his hips stutter, feel the hard length of him inside you stiffen even more and then he pulls you down, burying himself in you with a shout he only barely muffles against your skin.

And when you feel the first throbbing pulse of his orgasm inside you, you come all over again.

When at last it passes you rest heavily against his chest, feeling the length of him slowly begin to soften inside you. You can barely breathe, the both of you dripping sweat and trembling.

You feel the warm, wet circle of a kiss between your breasts. Another at your neck. And then Harvey’s mouth covers yours, soft and tender.

“You’re wonderful,” he breathes.

“So are you.”

He smiles, broad and sweet, and wraps his arms around you.

“We’re a mess,” Harvey maligns. “I’m going to have to take another shower before lunch is over.”

“Worth it, though.”

“Oh yes,” he agrees with a dazed chuckle. “Definitely worth it.”

⁂

After a brief turn in the shower, you piece yourselves back together. It’s a little haphazard. There’s a minor scuffle in the kitchen as you try to locate your panties, which have apparently landed in a different locale than your bluejeans. After five minutes shuffling around pantsless you finally call it a bust.

“Well, if you ever wrench them back from whatever gremlin ran off with them, you can keep them,” you say, pulling your jeans on. “Not the first time I’ve gone commando.”

Harvey colors a little, smiling at the thought.

“It never ceases to amaze me that you can look that bashful after fucking me half-senseless.”

“Only half?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as he fights to straighten the knot on his tie. “I’ll have to try harder next time.”

He pulls you into a kiss, lifting you up onto your toes.

“I’ll see you Wednesday, most likely,” he says. “But if I’m not completely dead tomorrow night we could have dinner.”

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” you tell him.

There’s a quiet jingle from downstairs and then Maru’s voice carries up: _“I’m baaack! I hope everyone is wearing work-appropriate levels of clothing!”_

Harvey flinches comically as you call back: _“Does chocolate sauce count as work-appropriate?”_

“Yoba help me,” he mutters, snickering and shaking his head.

⁂

You’re halfway home when your phone lights up on the dashboard.

The screen kicks off again before you can make out the text, but a tiny spike of worry finds its way into the back of your mind, poking at you until you pull off to the side of the road.

Probably Harvey, you tell yourself. Or Maru. Maybe even Elliot resurfacing from a writing fugue.

It’s not Harvey. Or Maru. Or Elliot.

It’s Emily. Four words. Plain text, no emojis.

_We need to talk._

A very cold, very heavy weight lands in the pit of your stomach, and before you even have time to think, you’re turning the truck back around towards town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, somehow this is still going. I dunno how we got here folks, but we're here, and thank you to everybody who's been reading this little string of disasters. If you've played the game (and I applaud you for reading if you haven't, you brave brave soul), you can probably guess where this might be headed. It's gonna be a rough couple of days in Pelican Town.


	2. Chapter 2

Panic, being the loud, fluttery thing that it is, doesn’t lend itself to straight thinking. It doesn’t even occur to you to even text Emily back and ask where she is until you’re launching yourself out of your truck and jogging up to her front door. When it dawns on you that she might not even be home you stumble over yourself, trying to get your phone out of your pocket to text and nearly tripping over a potted plant.

“Hey, be careful! The last thing I want to do today is explain to Harvey how you broke your nose tripping over my lavender.” Emily holds the door open, electric blue hair piled into a puff on the top of her head. She's smiling, but it’s ill suited to her face - thin and a little twisted. “Come on in.”

The inside of Emily’s house smells of old incense, tea, and the warm, sugary smell of fresh cake.

“You could’ve just called. I didn’t mean for you to rush over. If I’d known you were coming I would’ve made more tea,” she says, gesturing to the single mug on the coffee table.

“That’s alright. I might’ve...panicked a little.”

“I can see that.” She pats at the couch next to her, and obvious invitation.

Your nerves would prefer standing. Or sprinting. Sprinting might be good. But you sit, clasping your hands tightly together.

“I’m guessing you already know, but I went over to see Shane,” Emily says.

You give a little nod, muscles in your neck creaking. “Maru said. How was he?”

She smiles tightly. “Worrying. After Maru texted, I made up a hangover buster and went out to the ranch. Not the first time I’ve done that, though Shane usually tells me he’d prefer if I just brought him a coffee and a greasy bacon sandwich.” Emily pulls a face that says exactly what she thinks of such an idea. 

“Anyway, when I got there, it...I know you don’t exactly subscribe to this sort of thing, but...the energy of the place was all off. Even before I got out of the car and heard the shouting.”

“Shouting?”

“Marnie and Shane. I only caught some of it before Shane stormed out. ‘What are you doing with your life,’ all that sort of thing. Which, I understand, Marnie’s worried about him. _I’m_ worried about him, and the way you got here so fast I’m going to guess you’re worried about him, too. But that’s no way to solve the problem.”

“What _is_ the problem? Harvey seemed to know something, but he couldn’t tell me.”

“Well of course he can’t, he’s got a medical license to worry about," Emily says, waving a hand. "Shane's always been pretty spiky and not much for talking, but I've picked up enough over time. The drinking is part of it. A big part, I'm not going to lie, and I promise you however guilty you think I should feel for filling his glass at the tavern, I feel _far_ worse _._ He is horribly depressed. He hates his job. He misses his sister. He's afraid he's messing everything up with Jas. That's a lot of it right there. And after he stormed off earlier, Marnie told me it’s been nearly two years to the day since his sister died.”

 _“Shit,”_ you mutter, rubbing at your temples. “No wonder.”

“Exactly.”

“What can we do?”

Emily sits back with a long sigh. “I don’t know. Intervention, maybe? He needs help, but getting him to admit that, accept it, that’s...I’ve been trying for months,” she says with a dry and brittle laugh. “I know Harvey has, too. But we have to do _something_ . The last thing I heard out of that argument was Marnie insisting Shane needed a plan for his life, and Shane said that with any luck he wouldn’t _need_ a plan.”

You wince. “That’s- _fuck.”_

“Yeah. Jas walked in after that, poor thing just crying her little heart out. She’d heard all of it, of course. Shane just sort of buckled and then left. Pushed right past me like I was part of the furniture.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“I don’t know. I know he took the truck. I was hoping maybe some fresh air will clear his head a little. Seeing Jas cry like that really hit him hard.”

Emily leans forward, clasping one of your hands. “You’re one of his best friends, even if he doesn’t say it. Honestly, you’re the reason why he _has_ friends. He was so closed off when he first came here. I wanted you to know what was going on. Because you _should_ know. And I think you can help him more than I can.”

“I thought you and he were-”

“Oh, no,” she says with a sad smile. “It’s not that I don’t...or that I _wouldn’t_. He's sweet enough in his own way once you get past all the walls he's put up. But that sort of a relationship wouldn’t be good for either of us. Not like this. It’s hard to...it’s hard to do that sort of thing from the bottom of a bottle.”

“I thought it was- I thought I’d made him angry,” you say softly, staring at your hands. “That Harvey and I, that it had upset him.”

“It might have,” Emily says. “But if it did, it’s just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Don’t hold it against him. I don’t think he can really be happy for anybody right now.”

You sit for a moment, processing all of this. “Harvey’s, um, Harvey’s going to try and get him into the clinic this week. Maybe between all of us we can sort of herd him in the right direction.”

“I hope so,” Emily says. “I don’t know if there’s a _right_ way to do this. He’s not the kind that’s much for talking it out. But leaving him alone might be worse than trying to go talk to him. This is really outside of my zone, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” You rake your hands through your hair, desperately trying to come up with any sort of plan. “I think...I think maybe we should at least keep a net up. You, me, Harvey, Maru. Let’s not swarm him, but just keep an eye out. Send some messages. Let him know we’re here. No pressure.”

“It’s a place to start.” She lays a hand on your arm, a small smile breaking through the severity in her face. “Thank you for coming over, and for listening. I know it might be weird to say after all that, but I’m happy for you. I always knew you and Harvey would be a good fit.”

“You did, huh?”

Her smile broadens. “You two have been making eyes at each other practically from day one, and neither of you noticed the other looking. It’s sweet, in a ridiculous kinda way.”

A little laugh breaks from you at that, but the tension refuses to abate. It only digs in deeper, branching its way up your shoulders and around your ribs with grasping, searching fingers.

⁂

You stay for a little. Emily makes more tea as you both send out a bevy of text messages. Only the text to Shane goes unanswered. After quickly forming a group chat and making sure everyone agrees to keep their eyes peeled - _discretely_ \- for Shane, you make your way out of Emily’s place. 

The weather is beginning to turn as you climb into the cab of the truck, another storm rolling in from the west. The second you toss it down on the dashboard, your phone blasts out a sudden, ear-splitting screech - the herald of a Flash Flood Warning - and you are instantly grateful that you hadn’t put the damn truck in drive yet. As jumpy as you are, you would’ve ended up wrapped around a tree or sailing straight into the river.

You turn by Marnie’s place first. The truck is still gone, just a bare space of dirt and gravel and scraggly weeds where it ought to be, but as you get closer you can see Marnie and Jas through the living room window. Jas is engrossed in a cartoon on the television while Marnie watches the road with rapt interest. You wave a little as you drive by. Marnie doesn’t wave back, her eyes passing over your truck as soon as she recognizes it.

There’s no sign of Shane or the truck as you make your way back around to your farm. The heavens open just as you reach your mailbox, falling with a sudden rushing intensity like a cloudburst. Sighing, you drag out your phone and pull up the group chat.

You:  
_Went by Marnie’s. Truck’s still gone, Marnie’s still there._   
_Lmk if you see the truck go by. Gonna try to get  
_ _out of this rain._

A few moments go by before a response comes back.

Emily:  
_k eyes open_ _  
_ _spoke to Gus, will call if Shane comes in_

Maru:  
_heading home, i’ll shout if I see anything._

Harvey:  
_Not going to be much use as a lookout from here,  
__but will do my best. Scanner is on._

An addition to Harvey’s radio set up he rarely ever used was a refurbished old police scanner. He showed you the thing once, and though he admitted it rarely came to much use out here in the valley, he’d said he’d always preferred to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.

You:   
_Hope you don’t need it._

Harvey:   
_Me too._

Inside the cabin is warm and dry and quiet, but try as you might, you cannot bring yourself to sit still. You fall to pacing, and to compulsive, fidgety cleaning, all the while checking your phone constantly for updates. 

The message you’ve sent to Shane now at least bears the “seen” tag, but there’s no response.

Restlessness and worry eventually get the better of you, and you decide to brave the weather, dashing back out to the truck. You find the radio station Harvey favors, the soft, sweet sound of a woman’s voice swelling over an orchestral band fills the cab under the white-noise rush of rain on the roof. It’s calming. Grounding. You sit for a little while, listening to the music and the rain and the sound of the windshield wipers and staring down at your phone. Harvey’s face, round and crinkley-eyed, smiles back at you from the screen.

Reluctantly, you swipe the screen away, pulling up the messenger. 

You:   
_Gonna send him another text then do another turn  
_ _around the valley, see if I can spot him._

Harvey:   
_?_ _You shouldn’t be driving in this._

You:   
_I’ll be fine, promise._

Harvey:   
_just be careful_

Maru:   
_you two are adorable_

Harvey:  
_There’s slightly more pressing matters at hand!_

Maru:  
_humor is a coping mechanism, sue me_

Emily:   
_keep us informed OMD_

Harvey:  
_OMD?_

You:   
_Old Mac Donald. Me._

Harvey:   
_Oh right.  
__Seriously I mean it, sweetheart, please be careful._

Maru:   
😍

Harvey:   
_I am too old for any of this._

Despite everything you can’t help but smile a little. You make a mental note to bake Maru a pie when this is over.

Heart beating a little too hard, you send one last text, this time to Shane.

_You doing ok, kiddo? Worried about you. No pressure_  
_to respond if you’re not up to it, but I’m here if you need  
_ _anything._

You hover over the send button for far too long, re-reading the message over and over. You want him to know there’s someone that cares, that he hasn’t got to suffer through something awful on his own, but is that even going to help? Is it enough? You’re not a therapist, you’re a damn desk jockey that decided to play farmer, how the hell are you supposed to know the right answer to this?

But then, maybe there isn’t a right answer. Maybe there just needs to be _an_ answer. Maybe when someone is drowning you don’t waste time debating whether it’s better to throw a rope or a life preserver. Maybe you just grab whatever you’ve got and throw like their life depends on it.

Swearing under your breath, you hit send.

You stare at the phone for awhile, willing the little “seen” message to appear, but it doesn’t.

“Fuck.” Stomach twisting, you turn up the volume on the radio and put the truck into reverse.

You make it around the Valley twice. It’s slow going on the side roads, visibility going to practically nothing at times. It doesn’t help that you can’t stop the compulsion to check your phone every ten minutes. By the time you finish the second circuit it’s getting properly dark, the thick cloud cover choking off the light that much faster until everything is a haze of falling rain and headlights. There’s a gas station just west of town past the tunnel and you turn off in that direction. It’s a wild guess, but it’s something. Besides, if you’re going to keep circling the landscape you’re going to need to fill up.

You’ve just gotten the nozzle of the pump stuck into the tank when your phone goes off, dancing its way across the dashboard as it buzzes. The man at the next pump over gives you a look as you lunge for it, almost tripping over the hose in the process.

Harvey’s number appears on screen, and you fight down an unpleasant mix of relief and dread.

“Hello?”

“Anything yet?” You can barely hear him over the rain, but you close your eyes against the sound of his voice just the same.

“No. I texted, but I haven’t heard anything back. No sign of him on the main roads, either. Anything on your end?” 

“Radio’s been fairly quiet apart from a few road closings and one minor accident up on the highway with a sedan and a pickup with a horse trailer. I can’t see worth a damn in this weather, though, and that was before it started getting dark, so I’m a little useless on that front.”

“You're never useless. Alright. I’m going to make another pass or two, check some of the back roads. I think there’s a roadhouse further on down the highway, too, I might look there.”

“Watch yourself up there on the highway. That stretch gets slick when it rains.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s not me I’m worried about right now.”

“I’m worried about _both_ of you,” Harvey says. “That’s basically my job.”

“Got your masters degree in worrying, huh?”

Harvey laughs a little, the sound sending a warm tingle through your chest. “And a PHD in anxiety. I’m going to have to turn in early tonight, I’ve still got that clinic in the morning. But the phone will be on, and I assure you it will wake me up. If, Yoba forbid, something happens and you need me, just call.”

“I hope I don’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he says in a low voice. There’s no trace of levity now. “So do I.”

“Well, with any luck, Shane will wander back home while I’m not looking and all of this will have been an exercise in how to induce panic in your friends. Go on to bed, Harvey. Get some rest.”

“I’ll make an attempt.” He’s quiet for a long beat before finally he says, “He’ll be alright.”

You blow out a sigh, and it shakes far more than you want it to. “I hope so.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” You can almost hear the look on his face - the deep, worried, miserable frown - and you doubt there’ll be much rest for him tonight.

“Goodnight.”

⁂

There’s no real need to head inside the gas station itself. It’s new enough, or at least well-maintained enough to have the pumps with the credit card slot. But your nerves are taking over, and your stomach is quite keen to remind you that you haven’t eaten since breakfast. Some crackers, you decide, might help settle it.

The inside of the place is cool and mostly dry, a little puddle of fluorescent light on faded linoleum. It takes a moment, but you find one of those over-priced single stacks of saltines and a bottle of Sprite and pile them on the countertop. The clerk, an older guy with long white hair and a series of blurry, faded tattoos running up his arms under thickly curling hair, throws the magazine he was reading aside and gives you a forced smile.

“Evenin’. This all for ya?”

You give a nod. “Paid for the gas out at the pump,” you say, gesturing to your truck.

“Alright, I gotcha. Not a good night for drivin’. Hope you’re not plannin’ on goin’ far.”

“Me too.” You watch as he rings up the total, and a hopeful thought occurs to you. “Hey, do you know the folks in Pelican Town?”

He fixes you with a look, eyebrows hiked high up on his creased forehead. “Miss, I do hope that’s a joke. Everybody knows _everybody_ around here.”

You hold your hands up, conceding. “Alright, no, that’s fair. Still getting used to living out in the sticks. I forget. Do you know Shane?”

His face contorts a little, eyes searching the ceiling as he thinks. “Scruffy guy, ‘bout yea-high?” he asks, holding his hand at about eye-level. “The one lives out with Marnie and the little one?”

“That’s him.”

“Yeah, I know him. Comes ‘round for a 12-pack every now an’ again when Joja’s closed.” He makes a face at the mention of the chain store.

“You seen him today?”

“Oh yeah. He went through...couple hours ago I think. Must’ve been planning a party, though I dunno who in their right mind wants to have a damn shindig in this weather.”

Your stomach flips neatly. “What do you mean, what did he buy?”

“Full case of beer, bottle of bourbon, and a bottle of vodka. Tried to get him interested in some of the juice we got in from my cousin’s orchard up in Chestervale, but he wasn’t goin’ for it.”

“Thank you,” you say, mouth dry. Barely looking, you toss a small wad of bills onto the counter and tear for the door.

“Hey! Don’t you want your change?”

“Keep it!” you shout over the rain, keys jangling in your hand.

You’re not the praying sort, but as the truck starts up again and you pull out onto the highway, you think that maybe it’s not such a bad idea. Just this once.

⁂

The rain has not let up. It pounds down relentlessly on the windshield and turns the darkened back roads into a staticy haze that hurts your eyes to look at. It’s the sort of weather you usually attribute to moody television shows and films - a downpour so hard and steady it could surely only be produced by mechanical means.

The first flashes of lightning kick up overhead as you crest the hill and head back down towards Marnie’s place, hoping to see the truck parked out front. The world lights up in a sudden strobe of blue-violet light as lightning crawls across the cloud bank in forking arcs.

And there’s still no truck.

Swearing, you turn off onto the choked, narrow road that leads out into the woods, straining your eyes for the slightest gleam of metal in the dark. You hold your breath a little as you approach the old bridge over the river, but there’s blessedly no sign of him here. The tires make a hollow sound going across the wooden planks, something that makes you think of empty coffins rolling over pavement. A macabre thought, even for this situation, but one you can’t quite shake out of your head.

The road forks up ahead. To the west is the fairgrounds, the open stretch of field where they held the Flower Dance in spring. To the east is the small picnic overlook at the cliffs.

You crane your neck, squinting through the gloom, trying to pick a direction, when another flash of lightning hits. And off to the east, half hidden by trees and brush, you see a reflection of glass and chrome.

“Fuck. Fuck. No you don’t. _No you fucking don’t._ ”

The tires spin as you hit the gas, kicking mud and gravel and threatening to bury themselves in the muck. But then you lurch forward, nearly fishtailing, and speed off down the road.

It’s empty. Not crashed but parked, half-hidden among the bushes. A small pile of empty cans littering the ground beneath the driver’s side door.

You jump out, thinking forward only far enough to put the truck into park so it doesn’t roll away into the woods or down off the fucking cliff before your boots squelch down into the mud.

_“Shane!”_

Another flash lights up the night, and you catch sight of more beer cans ahead. Praying that your phone is at least a little water-resistant, you fish it out and pop the flashlight on.

_“Shane! Come on, kiddo, answer me!”_

You’ve been down here once or twice when you first moved to the valley, back when money was astonishingly tight and the best you could do to ensure you still ate at night was foraging for whatever grew wild. Past the trees, just before the cliff is a covered shelter. Nothing fancy, just a concrete slab, a roof and a few picnic tables. You sprint off, trying to keep your footing on the soft, shifting ground.

_“Shane!”_

A sound, nearly drowned out by the rain. A groan.

“Shane?”

The shelter comes into view, rain pouring down off the eaves in sheets. And there, slumped over one of the benches with his head in his hands, is Shane. A single, buzzing sodium arc lamp throws orange light on the scene, painting his face in stark relief.

“Fuck’re you doin here, Phil?” he slurs as you jog up. He winces as the flashlight hits him, watery eyes squeezing shut tightly. _“Shit!_ You come out here tryna blind me? Fuck!”

You lower the phone, fumbling with cold, wet fingers to turn the flashlight off. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

The smell as you step closer is overpowering, sharp and sour and stinking. The case of beer lies on the ground next to him, torn open and far emptier than you like. The bottle vodka sits on the table, cap off, but still mostly full. Shane holds the bottle of bourbon in one hand, gesturing sloppily with it. The liquid inside - what remains of it anyway - sloshes noisily.

“Well congratulations, you found me,” he slurs. “Now fuck right back off and _un-find_ me.”

Slowly you shake your head. “Yeah, I’m not gonna do that.”

He grunts, taking a swig from the bottle. “Don’t you have somethin’ better to do? Huh? Catch a ride on a mustache an’ leave me the fuck alone.”

“No.”

Shane scoffs, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well fuck. What’s a piece of shit gotta do for a little privacy around here, huh?”

“Shane, you’re not-”

“Oh, fuck me, _don’t bother,”_ he groans, rolling his eyes. “You gonna stand there and tell me I’m a good person, huh? Gonna, gonna tell me I _matter?_ Nothing matters, Phil. Fucking _nothing._ Least of all me. I have fucked _everything_ up. Fuckin’ Anti-Midas. Everything I touch turns to fucking _shit!_ I-I can’t- I, fuck what do I have? Huh? What the fuck do I have?”

He stands, or tries to, legs tangling under the picnic table. He stumbles as he pulls them free, kicking the torn case of beer hard enough to send cans rolling. The vodka bottle, still mostly full, tumbles off the table and shatters on the concrete.

“Fuck! See!” he cries, almost triumphant in his belligerence. “Fucking fuck up! Can’t do fuckin’ _nothing_ right! No plan. No life. Nobody that fucking cares.”

 _“Bullshit!”_ you cry, shoulders shaking. “You think nobody cares? Emily. Maru. Harvey. Marnie and Jas, for crying out loud! Fuck, Shane, I have been driving in circles for _hours_ trying to find you because I’ve been worried sick! Don’t you _dare_ stand there and try to tell me you haven’t got anybody that cares!”

He blinks, wavering on the spot. And then, horribly, he smiles.

“Doesn’t matter, babydoll. Doesn’t matter one bit. Everybody goes away. M’ sister, she cared, too. Doesn’t matter now. She’s gone. An’ I’m here tryin’ to hold it together. I can’t- I can’t look after her fuckin’ _kid._ I couldn’t even look after _her_. Good for fucking _nothing!”_

His face works, a rapid oscillation between tears and rage, and you’re half a step from apologizing when he _screams_. A shrill, full-throated roar of utter misery. He throws the bottle of bourbon as hard as he can and you watch it tumble off into the night, past the guard railing at the edge of the drop.

And Shane crumples.

“Tell me,” he mumbles, rocking slowly back and forth on the damp concrete floor. “Tell me why I shouldn’t throw myself off, too. One reason, just _gimme one fucking reason.”_

You kneel down, grabbing his shoulders and turning him to face you.

“Because Jas already lost her mother. She doesn’t deserve to lose you, too.”

He blinks at you, thunderstruck. Then his face twists pitifully, a strangled whine in his throat. Shane lowers his head in his hands and begins to cry. You tug at him, pulling him close, and eventually he slumps against you, sobbing onto your shoulder.

_“I miss her.”_

You squeeze him a little tighter, a horrible lump stuck in your throat. “I know, kiddo, I know.”

“I’m _sorry,”_ he all but wails, hands tugging at your sleeves. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok. You’re gonna be ok. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

“I-I think...I th...I think I need a doctor.”

“I got you, kiddo.”

It’s a slow trek back to your truck with Shane half-dangling off your shoulders. His anger seems to have been the only thing holding him upright, and now that it’s slipped away it’s a struggle to keep him on his feet. He’s gone so limp by the time you get to the truck that you have to slump him over the seat and race around to drag him up into the cab from the opposite side.

“Stay awake, kiddo,” you say, giving him a shake as you shove his legs up into the truck and get the door shut.

He gives a little groan, eyelids struggling to keep open.

Your phone’s in your hand even before you get into the cab, pulling up Harvey’s number out of your contacts. It barely rings once before Harvey picks up.

“What is it?” he stammers with all the panic of one who has been startled out of sleep. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got Shane,” you say, hitting speaker and tossing the phone down beside you. Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, high and taut. “I’m coming to you.”

“Is he hurt?” he asks sharply. The sleep has vanished from his voice so abruptly you’re not sure if it was even there.

“I don’t think so. But he’s made his way through an awful lot of alcohol.”

“Beer?”

“And bourbon. There was vodka too, but I don’t know how much of that he actually had.”

A faint rustling in the background, then the rattle of a door handle. “Is he conscious?”

Shane blinks up at you with unfocused eyes. “Issat Harvey? Tellim. Tellim ‘m sorry. Sorry I callim a pringle.”

“Yeah, just barely,” you say.

“Keep him talking. I’ll meet you at the door. And you listen to me: _be careful.”_

“I will. Stay on the line, yeah?”

“Right here.”

The drive into town takes perhaps fifteen minutes with the weather the way it is, but it feels like an hour at least. It feels like a juggling act trying to navigate the narrow back roads while prodding at Shane to keep him awake. He grumbles and groans, leaning against your shoulder, weeping and muttering apologies through his tears. To you, to Harvey. To Marnie and Jas. To his sister.

Harvey is standing in the door of the clinic as you pull up, phone in hand, face pale and pinched. He’s still in his sleep clothes - blue plaid pyjama pants and the old t-shirt you’d given him - but he’s pulled his white doctor’s coat over them.

The truck’s not quite rolled to a full stop when Harvey pulls the passenger side door open and Shane almost topples over onto him.

You’re out of the truck like a shot, running around the side to help, but Harvey’s already got Shane’s arm over his shoulder. “Get the door, please,” he says, rain splattering his glasses.

You run ahead of him, holding doors until you reach the tiny little inpatient/emergency ward. Harvey lowers Shane down onto one of the three beds and you help, pulling off Shane’s mud-caked shoes and swinging his legs up onto the bed.

“What can I do?”

“Wait outside.”

 _“What?_ Harvey, no, you’ve only got the one pair of hands, I, I can-”

Harvey turns to you, clasping your face in his hands. His eyes are wide, the pupils constricted. “I’m going to have to pump his stomach,” he says, slow and measured. “You do not need to see this, and I do not... I need you to wait outside, _please._ ”

There are tears welling up in your eyes, but you nod, clutching Shane’s dirty shoes. “Alright.”

Harvey kisses you, just the once, and for a second you swear you can taste panic on his lips like sharp, bitter wine. And then he turns away, pulling drawers open and digging for equipment, all his focus turning to the emergency at hand.

You back yourself out of the room, reluctant and shaking, and make your way out to the waiting room. The door stands open, rain splattering on the old tiles. Outside the truck still idles, billowing exhaust and steam, both doors wide open. You walk out into the rain, feet a bit numb. All of you is, now that you think about it. Rain trickles down your scalp and soaks deeper into your clothes, something you’re only aware of on the smallest, barest surface level. 

Carefully you place Shane’s shoes on the passenger side floorboard. The soda and crackers you’d bought at the gas station have rolled down onto the floor and out of the thin plastic bag, bits of dirt and leaves sticking to the condensation on the outside of the soda bottle. Half of the cardboard cracker box has soaked through with dark, muddy water.

The radio is still playing, the station coming in clearer here. The same sweet voice you heard singing earlier rings out into the white static hiss of the rain.

 _And if my life is like the dust_  
_Ooh, that hides the glow of a rose_  
_What good am I?  
Heaven only knows_

A shudder ripples up your back, and suddenly, like a switch has been flipped, you can feel it. The rain. The _cold._ Shivering, you turn the ignition off, not even bothering to pocket the keys, and close the door behind you. 

The next hour crawls by as you sit huddled in the corner of the waiting room, cold and sodden. You could go upstairs, you know this. Put on a pot of coffee. Try to dry off and warm up. But you can’t move. Try as you might, you just _can’t._ What if something happens while you’re away?

The words circle your head like hungry mosquitoes, whining incessantly. _What if? What if? What if?_

The rain has started to slacken finally, still falling but no longer pounding, and all grows slowly quiet. You can hear things from the back, occasionally. The chirps and hums of medical equipment, muffled and faint. When at last you hear the door in the back creak open, all the tension in your body releases like a coiled spring and you shoot up onto your feet, almost skidding as you rush to meet Harvey.

“How is he?”

Harvey catches you by the elbows, holding you fast. “Resting. I’ve pumped his stomach, started him on an IV. Took a blood sample, that’s going to take some time to process before I know what his blood alcohol level is exactly, but from the state he’s in I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to guess that it’s quite high. He’ll need to be monitored overnight, but he should be alright.”

“I sh-should call Marnie. She, she should-”

“I’ll call her,” Harvey says, voice soft and low. “You’ve done enough today. Let me take care of this.”

Harvey’s image doubles, and it isn’t until you feel warmth streaking down your cheeks that you understand why.

“He’s going to be ok. I promise, it’s going to be ok,” Harvey whispers, pulling you into his arms. “Sweetheart, you’re soaked - and _freezing.”_

“S-sorry,” you stutter, pulling away.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, brushing your wet hair away from your face and pressing a warm kiss to your forehead. “Listen, there’s nothing else you can do here. There’s no sense in sitting here shivering all night. Go on home, try and get some rest.”

You shake your head through a fresh spill of tears. “I’m not- I _can’t.”_

His hands trace your face, an awful, pained look in his eyes. “Go on upstairs, then. I’m going to have to stay up the night anyway. I’ll make a pot of coffee, you can grab a hot shower. If you think you can sleep, you can take the bed. Alright?”

You nod, too overwhelmed to speak, and press your lips into the palm of his hand. His pulse thuds against your mouth, hard and fast, a frantic counterpoint to the calmness he presents.

He leads you upstairs, lingering for only a moment at the bathroom door to kiss you one more time, hard and sweet and a little desperate.

“You did a good thing tonight. Don't forget that.”

Again you nod, fighting to keep your breathing steady. “Thank you,” you manage in a strangled whisper.

He squeezes your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles, then reluctantly steps away, shutting the bathroom door behind him.

You peel away your soaked clothes, piling them into the washer hidden away in the linen closet, and climb into Harvey's shower. Your skin is so cold the first touch of hot water burns, but you endure it, standing under the flow of water and slowly letting the feeling creep back in. 

After, you find yourself hovering over the sink, trying hard not to meet your own eyes in the fogged mirror. Instead your gaze ticks over the toiletries and accoutrements scattered around the place. A fine-bristled shaving brush and razor. Unscented hand soap. Crest toothpaste. A bottle of Green Irish Tweed.

You grab this last, wafting the bottle under your nose and closing your eyes against the familiar, comforting smell.

Damp again, but no longer cold, you slip out of the bathroom wrapped in a dark blue towel, meaning to find something of his you can pull on. Harvey, it seems, is ahead of you. There’s an old wingback chair near the bathroom door, and draped across the arm of it is a pair of his pyjamas and a thick pair of woolen socks. The top itself hangs down nearly to your knees. Holding the drawstring bottoms up against your waist you can see the hems trailing on the floor, and a strangled, tittering laugh escapes you. He is so ridiculously _tall_.

On the coffee table there’s a single mug waiting for you, contents steaming. A little post-it note has been stuck to the side of it.

_Decaf. Get some sleep, sweetheart x_

You’d barely processed the tears you cried earlier, but you mark these, and you mark them well. They flow hard and freely as you grapple for one of the throw cushions, wrapping your arms around it like a life preserver. And you cry. You cry until all that’s left is a pressure in your head and an ache in the empty pit of your stomach and you drift off there, curled up and cried out on Harvey’s couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song on the radio is "This Bitter Earth" by Dinah Washington.
> 
> This was a heavy one. I'd originally planned this fic to go a much lighter direction, but I realized very quickly that Shane in this timeline wouldn't have gone through recovery just yet, especially if the farmer in question was actively inviting him out to the tavern for a wine tasting. So now we're here in angst town for a minute.


	3. Chapter 3

The hand on your arm is gentle, shaking you awake almost apologetically. You open bleary eyes to see Harvey bent over you, smiling tiredly. There’s a fine shade of stubble across his chin and cheeks, his eyes a little red and a little haggard.

“Morning,” he says in a soft rumble.

“What time is it?”

“Six-thirty, or thereabouts.”

“What’s- everything ok?” You sit up, pushing away a thick blanket that you could swear you didn’t have when you fell asleep.

Harvey nods, rubbing your arm. “Everything’s fine, everything’s fine. Shane’s awake. Marnie’s on her way to take him home, but he wants to talk to you first.”

You nod, rubbing at your eyes. Your head still aches, but it’s dull now, an uncomfortable but tolerable pressure.

“How is he?” you ask, bending to roll up the overlong cuffs of the borrowed pyjama pants. The thought of tumbling headlong down the narrow stairs to the clinic doesn’t sound like a way you’re particularly keen to start the day.

“Rough but relatively fine, all things considered. He can tell you more.”

You find his hand, winding it in your own, and let him lead you downstairs.

The room is quiet when you enter. All machines disconnected. Shane sits with his elbows on his knees on the edge of the bed, fingers nervously twisting the drawstrings on his hoodie.

“Hey Phil,” he says, voice hoarse and broken.

You cast a slightly alarmed glance at Harvey, who shakes his head a little.

“It’s normal. The tube,” he says, motioning at his throat. He gives your hand a squeeze, then drops it. “I’ll give you two a minute. You can come on out when you’re ready.” He gives you both a look, soft and anxious and tired, before backing out of the room on his heels.

Shane’s eyes skirt across the floor, not quite able to look up at you. He clears his throat, a sound like grinding gears.

“Where are my shoes?” he asks quietly.

“In my truck. I...honestly I don’t know why I put them there.”

“Oh,” he says simply. “That’s uh, that’s fine. Least I didn’t lose them.”

There’s a stretch of silence that leaves you shuffling a little, and then you both open your mouth, words crashing over each other all at once.

“How are you-”

“I don’t really-”

You stammer, a shrill, breathless giggle escaping you. “Sorry. You first.”

“I uh. I don’t remember much. Harvey told me some of it. I suppose I can guess the rest. I was an asshole yesterday. I guess that’s not really news. I’ve been an asshole for awhile now.”

“Shane-”

He holds up a hand. “No, just, let me finish.” He glances up at you, eyes red and raw. “I was an asshole. And you still came looking for me. And I know me. If I was anywhere near as fucked up as Harvey says, then I was probably well beyond asshole when you found me. Grade A bastard material.”

You shrug a little, arms folded tightly. “You were…you weren’t yourself.”

The corners of his mouth lift in a rueful smile. “No, see, that’s the problem. That _is_ me. Same as the rest. That’s just the part I toss down a tankard and try to drown six days out of the week. Bastard just figured out how to swim.”

Shane pushes himself slowly to his feet and stands there, shoulders slumped, trying to look you in the eye.

“That’s, that’s not really my point though. I’m really not used to having friends. And I almost fucked that up. I almost fucked up a _lot_ last night. I said some lousy shit, but you still came looking for me. You didn’t have to, but you did. And if you hadn’t I might not- Jas would’ve lost somebody else.” He laughs bitterly, eyes shining. “See, now, that part. That part I remember. Everything else is a fucking blur, but that's burned right into my brain.”

Shane sniffs hard, eyes tracking across the ceiling as a fresh roll of tears starts. “And you’re right. You’re right. That girl’s all I got left of my little sister. And she deserves better than this. Harvey’s gonna get me in touch with some people. He’s been trying for a hot fucking minute honestly, but uh. I’m gonna take him up on it finally. So um. So thank you. For taking care of me.”

“C’mere shithead,” you mutter, tugging at his sleeve and pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m just glad you’re still here.”

He nods, shoulders shaking silently. “I _wanna_ be glad,” he mumbles.

“One thing at a time, kiddo. Just be here. That’s a good start.”

Distantly you hear the sound of the front door opening and a rush of heavy footfalls and the muffled sound of Marnie’s voice.

“You ready for this?” you ask.

“Fuck no,” he says, barking a thick, watery laugh into your hair.

“Yeah me either.”

You follow close behind as Shane shuffles out of the room, wiping his eyes. Marnie stands on the other side of the counter, looking pale and frazzled.

“Oh, _Shane,”_ she says in a flat, weary voice.

 _“Marnie,”_ Harvey says. Just that, just her name, quiet as you please, but the warning in it is more than clear.

Marnie’s eyes dart between Harvey, Shane, and you, lips pressed to a thin bright line. And then she nods.

“Can I, um, can I get my shoes?” Shane asks.

You nearly smack yourself in the forehead. “Ah, shit, yes, I’m sorry. They’re in the truck, I can-”

“I’ll get them,” Marnie says, turning briskly towards the door.

“Passenger side, on the floor,” you call after her

Harvey moves to Shane, two pieces of folded paper in his hands. “For your work,” he says, handing over the first paper. “You’re on bed rest and fluids for the next couple of days, understood?”

“Yeah, I got it, Doc.”

He hands over the second a little more carefully. "The number for Dr. Lengyll's office. And the time and date of your first appointment. I thought it might help to take the weight off that first step.”

Shane nods, but doesn’t look up. “Thanks.”

“If you need help getting there-”

“I got it, Doc.”

“I know it’s hard, and I know it hurts. But it _can_ get better,” Harvey says, so softly you barely catch it. “There’s always hope. You’ve got to believe that.”

Shane nods again, sniffling, and slaps Harvey on the shoulder just a bit harder than necessary. “For Jas,” he says, holding up the papers in his hands. “And I know I said it before but uhm...fuck, this is embarrassing, how do people do this shit?" He fidgets nervously, folding and unfolding the papers, before finally getting ahold of himself again. "Thank you. Both. For looking out for my stupid ass.”

Harvey gives a strangely solemn smile. “Any time.”

“If you need us,” you add, plucking at his sleeve, “you just call. Okay?”

A thought seems to occur to him and he lets out a laugh. “Emily is gonna fucking _kill_ me.”

“Oh I doubt that,” Harvey says.

You shrug. “She might drown you in wheat grass juice.”

Shane grimaces, but laughs all the same. “Right. See you crazy kids around, yeah?”

You give him one last hug, bone-creakingly tight, and over Shane’s shoulder you see Harvey move as though to join you, then think better of it.

Marnie returns with his shoes and you watch them leave, climbing into the cab of a faded teal truck you recognize not as Marnie’s, but Mayor Lewis’s, before it rolls away, bouncing along the cobblestones and out of sight.

You sigh, a breath you weren’t even aware you were holding, and turn to Harvey, meaning to wrap your arms around his waist and take a moment to breathe.

But Harvey isn’t there.

The door to the back swings very faintly.

“Harvey?"

A new knot in your stomach, you pad along the hall in your borrowed socks, taking to the stairs. The door to his apartment stands open. Harvey himself leans heavily against the doorway in the kitchen, white coat discarded on the kitchen table, the receiver of an old corded phone in one hand. He holds his glasses in the other, wrist against his forehead, hand trembling.

“Yes, can I speak to Doctor Fisker, please?” he says in a voice that’s too tight. “Harvey Greenwood. Yes.”

Carefully, you close the door behind you. The hinges creak in the brief silence and Harvey’s eyes, which had been shut tight, snap open. He stares at you, blinking, as if half-panicked at your presence. His chest hitches, breathing coming lighter and quicker. Then all at once he starts, turning away with the phone.

“Yeah, Carl, hi. Yeah, I know I was supposed to be there already. Something came up. We had a bit of an emergency situation and, and, and…” He rubs his face hard, grimacing as he stammers. A pause, then a short, sharp sigh. “Yeah. Yeah I feel like it, too. This was not the part of the job I missed. I’m sorry. Next time, I promise. Right. Give my love to Martin and the kids. All right. Bye.”

There’s a clatter as Harvey tries to hang up the phone, his hands shaking so hard that it doesn’t quite want to catch.

“Shit,” he whispers, stumbling his way to the couch. “Shit. _Fuck.”_

You approach him carefully, afraid of spooking him, as if he were a cornered deer. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to be here for this,” he says, breathing harder now, bent over his knees. The panic he had fought so hard to contain last night is pushing through now, a seed bursting open with cold, choking sprouts.

Part of you senses the dismissal, the same push to get you away, to give you _permission_ to go. Last night it was professional - this is personal. You put a hand on his back and he jumps, the muscles under your palm locked tight.

“Everything’s alright now,” you reassure him.

Harvey laughs, shrill and choked. “I _know_ that,” he says, not dismissive but dismayed. “I can’t help it. You can- I can- I don’t-”

As softly as you can, you ask him: “What do you need?”

He gulps in a breath, and when he lets it out it dissolves into a shaking sob. “Wardrobe, right side, m-middle shelf.”

Up against the wall on the left side of the bathroom door is a weathered three-paneled armoire. The panel on the right houses three shelves, the middle one lined in an assortment of prescription bottles.

“Luh-lorazepam. Small bottle.”

“How many?”

Harvey holds up two fingers. He’s rocking now, and you can see dark splatters of tears across the knees of his pyjama pants.

You start for the kitchen, meaning to bring him water, but he only shakes his head, flapping his hand in a clear gesture of _give it here_. As soon as you shake the small pills into his palm he downs them, knocking them back with the cold remains of last night’s coffee.

“Music, I need music,” he mumbles, wiping at his eyes. He points at the stereo cabinet. “Put the radio on. Please.”

As soon as the radio clicks on, the sound of horns and gentle strings fills the space and Harvey takes a deep, sudden breath, as if only now there’s air in the room.

His eyes follow you now as you make your way back to him, red and swollen and still leaking tears. He holds his breath, and you can see a new sort of trepidation in his face - an old fear under new varnish. Waiting for scorn or ridicule. And there is only the barest sense of hope in his eyes that maybe you _won’t_ look at this moment of weakness and hate him for it.

You cup his face, brushing away tears. “What else can I do?”

Harvey breaks, face crumpling. He pulls you down, wrapping his arms around your waist tightly.

_“Don’t leave.”_

⁂

It’s a long time before the medication kicks in, but at last his breathing calms and the tightly wound muscles in his back and shoulders finally go lax under your hands.

“Sorry you had to see that,” he mutters as Miles Davis softly blows out _Stella By Starlight_. He’s laid out half on top of you, arms still locked around your middle. "I don't handle emergencies all that well these days."

“You handled that just fine,” you say, stroking gently at his hair. "And you've got nothing to apologize for."

He makes a soft, considering sound. “I don’t know about that. It’s not fair to you. After yesterday, and after last night. I should be taking care of you, not the other way around.”

“It’s _more_ than fair. Harvey, you just pulled an all-nighter to make sure Shane was alright. You’ve earned the right to crack a little if you need to.” You sigh, eyes tracing swirling patterns in the plaster on the ceiling. “He’s going to be okay,” you say again. “I really think he’s going to be okay.”

“Thanks to you,” Harvey says with a grateful squeeze.

“And _you_. I couldn’t have done what you did.”

There’s a long pause where all you hear is the music on the radio. Faintly you think you can feel Harvey’s pulse kick up where his chest rests against your stomach.

“You don’t think-” he trails off ducking his head.

“What?”

“That I - that I’m weak.” he finishes haltingly.

You’ve seen that look in his eyes too many times now, but it still hurts far more than you expected to hear him admit it aloud.

“No I don't,” you say, holding him tighter. “But I’d like to have a word with whoever put that thought into your head. I saw how scared you were last night, and you pushed through anyway. You’re braver than you think you are.”

He falls silent, pressing his face against your shirt, and though his breathing remains steady, you feel the damp warmth of tears stain the fabric.

“I was going to go into emergency medicine,” he says after a time, when the tears have stopped again. “Thought I could do the most good there. Help the most people. Started with GP, then the residency in the ER. This was back in Zuzu. I managed one year. Just the one.”

You glance down at him, stroking his hair. His face is still half buried against your chest. “What happened?”

He lets out a dry, mirthless chuckle. _“Wrong_ choice. If you don’t already have an anxiety disorder, that line of work will issue one to you. And if you _do_ have one, as you have most certainly noticed now that I do, you’re quite roundly screwed.”

He sighs a little, pulling himself up so that his head rests against your shoulder. “Twelve hour shifts. You get used to trying to catch a nap in an empty bed on a slow night. You lecture people about the merits of good diet and exercise when you haven’t eaten anything that didn’t come frozen in a plastic tray since you left home for college. Suppose that part hasn’t really changed. And that doesn’t even count the stress of it. The nights where the place gets slammed and you’re just wishing it was slow and you were bored out of your skull instead of trying to staple people back together as fast as you can.”

His grip on you tightens just a little, fingers digging into your waist and your back. “I do not handle failure well,” he says slowly. “Never have. It was...let’s just say it was an _unacceptable result_ in my family. One night a woman gets brought in. Car crash. It was, it was bad. It was very, _very_ bad. There was practically nothing we could do. But you can’t just _do nothing_. You have to _try_. And she was a fighter, y’know. And I just kept thinking if she’s not giving up, neither can you.” 

“Did she make it?”

“No,” he says in a soft voice, both blank and broken. “She hung on for a long time, though. _Long_ time. But that was it for me. Had a bit of a breakdown. Went back and started my residency over as a GP. As soon as I got my license I got the hell out of Zuzu.”

“You still stuck with it, though? Being a doctor.”

He snorts a little. “Four years to get a Bachelor’s and another four in Med School? Yeah, I stuck with it. I’ll be paying off the student loans until I’m seventy _._ Figured if I was going to be that far in debt I might as well have something to show for it. And I still wanted to help people. That much didn’t change.”

Curious, you crane your neck a little, looking down at his face. “How old _are_ you, Harvey?”

He glances up at you, eyes unfocused and a little puzzled. “What year is it?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting at the attempted joke.

“1894.”

His eyes tick back and forth in an exaggerated mime of mental math. “Negative-eighty-seven,” he says, and when you laugh a slow, cautious smile breaks across his face.

“You are such a goofball,” you say, giggling.

“Thirty-seven,” he says, lowering his head once again. “I’ll be thirty-eight in February.”

“What day?”

“Fourteenth.”

“Valentine’s?”

“Mmhm.”

“I’ll have to remember that.”

Harvey sighs, nuzzling in closer. “I’m not opening the clinic today. Stay with me? We don’t have to do anything I just... I’d feel better if you were here.”

“I’ve got animals I need to feed,” you say sadly. “But I could come back, bring you lunch. It’d give you a little time rest.”

He hums against your neck. “If you must,” he says, a little disappointed. “Just promise you’ll be back.”

You draw him up into a kiss. “Promise.”

“I don’t know how I got this lucky,” he mumbles, fighting to keep his eyes open.

“Me either,” you say, stroking a finger across the sandpaper rasp of stubble at his jaw.

He blinks up at you, eyes suddenly clear and sharp. “Tell me you mean that,” he says, a tremulous crack in his voice.

Your heart gives a sudden clench that’s as sweet as it is painful. “I do. I mean it.”

He buries his face against your neck and lets out a ragged breath, and you can’t tell if it’s laughter or tears.

You whisper his name softly, your own tears threatening all over again. “One of these days I’m going to tell you how I feel and you’ll actually believe me.”

He laughs, fighting to clear his throat. “Give me time,” he says. “Right now I don’t think my poor old heart could take it.”

“Why don’t you tell me first, then. When you’re ready.”

He nods against the side of your neck. “Alright. Deal.”

Carefully you wriggle your way out from underneath him. Harvey rolls onto his back, wiping at his eyes.

“Get some rest, okay?” you tell him, pulling the blanket up over him. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

He nods, grasping your hand and kissing your fingertips. He gestures faintly towards the bathroom. “Your clothes are in the dryer. Take my keys. Top of the dresser, next to the phren- the weird head bust...thing.” At your slightly confused look he squeezes your hand. “So you can lock up on your way out. And get back in.”

He stretches up for another kiss, fingers playing gently with your hair. “I’ll miss you,” he says.

“I’ll miss you, too.”

⁂

It’s a clear day, cool in the wake of last night’s storms, and your poor truck looks like a complete mess of splattered mud in broad daylight. Harvey’s keys are a surprisingly pleasant weight in your pocket as you climb up behind the wheel.

“Hey! Wait!”

You crane your neck out the open door to see Maru running up, flapping her arms, Emily in tow.

“Hey. Morning,” you call out, leaning back into the seat.

“I got the text from Harvey this morning that you guys found Shane?,” Maru says as she jogs to a stop at the open door. 

“How is he?” Emily asks, and there’s just enough bags under her eyes to suggest she’s gotten about as much sleep as Harvey did. “Is he alright?”

“Marnie just took him home,” you tell them. “He’s ok, a little ragged, but ok. Harvey’s putting him in touch with a friend of his.”

Maru perks up, eyes wide. “Dr. Lengyll? The therapist?”

You nod. 

Maru grabs Emily’s arm. “Holy _shit._ Harvey’s been trying to get him to go see her for _months_. He’s really gonna go?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“See?” Emily says, trying for a knowing smile, but her eyes are just a touch too bright in the morning sun. “I told you.”

“I hope it sticks,” Maru says.

You nod. “Yeah, me too. Look, I’ve gotta go feed the kids before they stage a jailbreak. Harvey’s closed up shop for the day, so you're off the hook. He’s pretty wiped after last night.”

“I bet,” Maru agrees. “I think we’re all running on fumes today.”

“You are _not_ wrong,” you say, pulling the door closed. “Take it easy, you two. We all need an off day.”

Emily nods and Maru pops a little two-finger salute.

“Hey, quick question,” you say, leaning out the window. “What’s the current bets on me and Harvey?”

Emily grins. “Six people say you’ll be official by Winter. Three say by the end of the week. Four say you already are and nobody knows about the bouquet. And one says you’ll never work out and all is doomed, but Pam’s a miserable old cow anyway.”

You laugh, a big, ridiculous belly laugh, and put the truck into gear.

“Why d’you wanna know?” Maru asks.

“No reason,” you say, smiling sweetly.

“Ooooh you _liar!”_ she calls back gleefully.

Emily cackles, dragging Maru away by the elbow.

⁂

You’re not sure your work at the farm has ever dragged as much as it does today. Everything feels like it takes hours longer than usual, and the thick mud from last night’s rainstorm doesn’t help matters much. It’s past noon before you’ve got any hope of knocking off, despite the fact that not a single crop is ready for harvest yet, save for a few of the eggplants in your back garden.

A little more mud-streaked than you’d hoped to be, you stalk out to the flower field with a pair of pruning shears. The roses are a little ragged from the rain, but there’s still enough blooming now you’re able to pick a decent selection without putting any sort of dent in what might be worth selling later on.

A dozen, all told. Cream and burgundy and a deep, dusty pink. It takes a little time to clean them up, rinsing them down, plucking off thorns and bruised petals, before you’re able to trim them down and bundle them up with packing twine. A florist you are not, but it’s simple and fairly lovely, and the smell is just shy of enchanting.

You bundle it up in a bit of parchment paper to try to protect it on the rather bumpy way back. Butterflies are rapidly taking over your stomach, and you make an effort to ignore it, running yourself through your shower at record speeds to rinse off the mud and sweat. 

Your phone goes off as you’re scrambling to pull on clean clothes, the hook and eye catch of your bra refusing to work properly in your haste. Frustrated, you give up entirely, chucking the undergarment across the room and hooking it accidentally on the lampshade by the bed as you grab for your phone. 

"Hi sweetheart," Harvey says groggily, mid-stretch. "Are you still coming back?"

"Sorry, I'll be out the door in a few minutes," you say, pulling on a button-up shirt. "The fields are practically sludge right now, I had to run through the shower. You still want me to pick up lunch?"

"Have you eaten?"

"Not yet, no."

"Did you eat yesterday?"

You huff a little, one hand on your hip. "I object to this line of questioning, doctor."

Harvey chuckles. "Lunch would be good then."

"Any preference?"

"Hmmm. Reuben, extra pickles."

You grin, pressing a hand to the sudden fluttering in your stomach. "Coming right up."

"I'll put a pot of coffee on."

"Okay. See you in a minute."

You flop back on your bed, shirt half-buttoned, damp hair sticking to your face, trying to calm yourself down. This is a ridiculous time to do this. You _know_ that. You should wait. You should let things get back to normal.

But you can't. You want him to know - you _need_ him to know that you’re serious. That he means something to you. That he’s still carved out a place in your heart so suddenly and thoroughly you’d swear he’s been there the whole time, and you’d very much like him to stay there.

A quick call to Gus speeds the process a little. Two sandwiches, one Reuben with extra pickle, and soup of the day - French onion - to go. Gus assures you with his usual cheery enthusiasm that everything will be ready by the time you make it into town.

The square’s a little more lively than you’d like by the time you’re crossing back to Harvey’s place with lunch. As you climb out of the truck, pulling the sack and the bouquet of flowers with you, you catch sight of Robin and Jodi walking into Pierre’s place, gym bags on each of their shoulders. Jodi raises a hand to you, and you, having your hands rather solidly full, can do little more than smile and nod. The two women look down at your hands and break out into nearly identical grins.

It’s a disaster trying to get in the door. You’ve got yourself so scrambled that for a second you’re afraid you’ve left Harvey’s keys back at the cabin before you finally remember which pocket you stuck them in.

There’s still music playing as you make your way up, not that you can fully hear it over your heartbeat.

The door is unlocked. There’s sounds of running water and clinking ceramic as Harvey washes up your coffee mugs. He’s still in his pyjamas, hair an astonishing mess of corkscrew curls.

“Table’s cleared,” he says without turning.

You set the sack down and just sort of stand there, staring at him. “Do you have any idea how lovely you are?” you ask.

Harvey chuckles. “I’m fairly certain I look like I’ve been rolled down a very steep hill, but that’s kind of you.”

He turns, drying his hands on a tea towel, and finally gets a look at you. The wry grin on his face slips slowly into a bemused smile. “What...what’s this?”

You take a step forward, trying to remember how to speak. “So, I was informed recently that there’s a tradition in the valley. That when you’ve got your eye on somebody, you’re to show them your intentions with a bouquet. I would sort of hope by now that you’d have a pretty good idea of my intentions, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

He blinks slowly, breath catching. “You…”

“I don’t want you to wonder, Harvey,” you say, taking another step forward. “I don’t want you to think I’m only here to get you into bed. I don’t want you thinking I might not mean it when I say I care about you. I want you to know that I’m serious when I tell you how lucky you make me feel. And I want you to know that I’m serious about _you_. And maybe you're not ready to say some things, and that's alright. I'm not going to pressure you. But I want you to know that I will still be here when you are ready.”

You hold the roses out to him, hoping the trembling of your hand doesn't show. “I want this if you do.”

He says your name once in a hoarse little whisper, and then he practically _collides_ with you, nearly bending you backward with the force of his kiss, leaving you to cling to his neck to keep from falling.

“Is that a yes?” you say, tittering breathlessly as he gasps for air. You grin; you can’t help it. The butterflies aren’t just in your stomach now, they’re in your head and under your skin, a warm, sweet fluttering that suffuses you from head to toe.

Harvey nods, swallowing hard. "Yes. Yes, of _course_ it's a yes." He smiles at last, that broad and sweet smile that melts part of your heart every time you see it, and lifts you up into his arms as if you weigh nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, I promise, I *promise* I will write something that isn't an emotional landmine. Soon. But I might have a little bit of an arc in mind and some things needed to be addressed. Thank you guys so much for sticking with this series, you've all been really supportive and lovely and I appreciate the hell out of all of you. As always, feel free to chuck rocks at me on tumblr over this. <3


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